


Comfort Zone

by strawberriez8800



Series: What We Do [3]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alfie Cooks for Tommy, Established Relationship, Feel-good, Fluff, M/M, Post-Season/Series 05, They Eventually Cook Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:48:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23832640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriez8800/pseuds/strawberriez8800
Summary: Alfie was many things, yet a cook he was not. It didn't stop him from trying.In which Alfie cooks for Tommy, amongst other things.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Series: What We Do [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1704691
Comments: 6
Kudos: 96





	Comfort Zone

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again! This is my third story for the 'What We Do' series, but it can also be read independently, with the context of a recently-established relationship.
> 
> It's a lighthearted one, because I want them to be happy, dammit. I hope you enjoy this story.

Alfie was many things; a cook he was not.

His lack of culinary skills wasn’t something that generally hindered him—there were people employed for this purpose, after all—though things were the furthest from general these days.

Tommy, of course, was the one to blame, if only by virtue of his sheer existence which sparked Alfie’s ridiculous desire to make him _something_ —anything.

Frankly, it made no fucking sense, for Alfie—in all his life and after it—had never given cooking a second thought; then again, it would certainly do him well to stop trying to make sense of matters where Tommy was concerned if he wished to preserve what was left of his sanity.

So, it was with this utter lack of sense—and pride, Alfie acknowledged whilst he was at it—that he asked Marjorie for tips one afternoon, as though he was in preparation for some bloody culinary competition, which, upon further reflection, would be less embarrassing to admit than the truth.

Marge stared at Alfie with narrowed eyes in response to his demand. “Why are you looking to do _my_ job, Mr Solomons?”

He missed the real world sometimes; at least people had been afraid of him to an extent. “Because I’m paying your bloody wages, so you’re to do as I tell you, or is that too much to ask?”

“Forgive me, sir, for wondering why I should willingly seek to make myself redundant.”

If she hadn’t responded with such brazen cheek, Alfie might even be a little flattered for her confidence in his abilities. “Will you shut up and get started, Marge, pretty fucking please?” Alfie asked. “I promise, yeah, you’ll still have a job by the end of it.”

* * *

One oughtn’t to run before one had learned to walk, thus Alfie settled on a dish so easy he’d have to be missing half a brain to fuck up.

He was on his own this afternoon, having dismissed Marge for the day—and the next, for good measure, in anticipation of Tommy, thus the simplicity of potato and egg casserole was crucial to the evening’s success.

It was difficult to ignore the absurdity of it all as he found himself peeling fucking potatoes in a fucking apron, which Marge had insisted he wear with the threat that he’d be doing his own laundry otherwise—a point of decline he wasn’t quite ready for as yet.

Naturally, Tommy chose this day to let himself into Alfie’s house well before the time they had very clearly agreed on.

“Is your watch broken, mate? Or did you miss the part where we said half past seven, not fucking four in the afternoon?”

Tommy watched him from the edge of the kitchen, and there was a click of a lighter as he lit a cigarette. “ _You_ said half past seven, Alfie. It was a suggestion, not an agreement.”

Although Alfie wasn’t looking at him, he could imagine all too well Tommy’s little insufferable smirk at his current undertaking. “Whatever. Just get out of my kitchen and leave me in peace, Tom. Go shoot at some seagulls, yeah. They’re feeling quite neglected.”

Tommy simply continued to observe him. “An interesting pursuit to say the least,” he said after a period of silence. “It’s—nice, actually.”

Scowling, Alfie glanced over his shoulder at him. “Are you making fun of me, Thomas?”

“No.”

“Good.” Alfie tossed a slice of potato at Tommy, which landed on his arm.

“Stop being a fucking child, Alfie.”

* * *

Two things were made undoubtedly clear upon their initial taste of Alfie’s attempt at dinner.

First, the richness of its flavour certainly left something to be desired; second, there was a delicate balance between roasted to perfection and burnt to a fucking crisp, which was a lesson for future endeavours if nothing else.

Such observations were beyond subjectivity and resided firmly in the realm of _facts_ , yet one look at Tommy didn’t so much as suggest there was anything out of place.

Tommy’s chef at Arrow House was, no doubt, fucking terrible at his job.

“There’s no need to subject yourself to such torture, Tommy,” Alfie said with raised eyebrows as Tommy continued with his meal. “You know, I’m flattered that you would, yeah, but really.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Tommy said, though his half-smile indicated otherwise.

Alfie let out a brief, quiet laugh. “Suit yourself, silly boy.”

* * *

The next time Tommy visited Margate, he did so with a packaged dish that seemed _too_ impressive to be anything but professionally done.

“The day I believe you made these with your own hands, Tommy, is the day the sun rises from the fucking west.”

Tommy stared at him with stoic blue eyes.

“But it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?” Alfie added, unable to resist a grin.

“Shut up, Alfie.”

* * *

The compromise between near-inedible cooking by Alfie and unrealistic expectations set by Tommy’s store-bought meals was, ultimately, one in which they cooked together.

It came about as an unspoken understanding when, one afternoon, Tommy dropped a bag of groceries on Alfie’s table.

Alfie peered into the bag suspiciously. “Hmm?”

“If you want to taste my cooking, this is the only way,” Tommy said with his back to Alfie as he retrieved utensils from the kitchen cupboards. Pausing, he glanced back at Alfie. “Well, are you coming or not?”

For one reason or another, this proposal kindled an absurd happiness and sent a stupid smile to Alfie’s face.

“ _Fuck_ yes.”

* * *

This time around, dinner tasted a tad bit better than Alfie’s prior attempt, which wasn’t saying much yet it was far from nothing; Alfie certainly thought so, though who could say for sure where Tommy was concerned?

“You know, Tom, one day I might just sneak dog shit into your plate just to see if you’d react differently. Does everything taste the same to you, mate?”

It was an honest question.

“I would cut you, Alfie, if you ever tried it.”

“All right,” Alfie hummed, “so that’s to say you do like this then—what we made tonight?”

“I don’t care as long as you’re there to share it,” Tommy said, unperturbed, as if it was the most fucking obvious thing in the world.

“...Oh.”

That evening, Tommy volunteered to clean the dishes, which, of course, paved the perfect opportunity for Alfie to come up behind him and put a hand up Tommy’s shirt and another down his pants.

“I’m trying to be productive here, Alfie.”

“Go on,” Alfie mumbled against the nape of his neck, “don’t let me stop you, yeah.”

And so the challenge began; Tommy continued to be _productive_ whilst Alfie attempted to thwart his efforts. Slowly, Alfie slid his hand along the length of Tommy’s torso, feeling every plane of lean muscle and every ridge of his ribs beneath his touch. He licked the patch of hot skin on Tommy’s neck, letting his breath ghost over the surface and feeling Tommy suck in a small breath.

When Alfie curled a hand around Tommy’s cock, it was half-hard—a delightful observation as any, and he began to stroke Tommy, from base to tip, gently, barely touching him until his cock was completely _hard_ and, fuck, the bastard was still doing the bloody dishes.

All at once, there was a clink of a plate as Tommy set it back in the sink.

“You,” Tommy said, voice rough, “are ridiculous, Alfie.”

The dishes weren’t cleaned until the next morning.


End file.
